The Face
by I.C. Weener
Summary: Tear decides to up her FFX-2 game. Let's see how it works out for her.


" _They're all gonna laugh at you."_

\- Carrie's mom

" _Hey there."_

\- Euphemia li Britannia

* * *

Tear couldn't believe she had let Anise talk her into putting on a concert to help with the party's finances. It seemed like a vain and tasteless waste of her training. Seventh Fonists were supposed to be proud matriarchs who upheld Yulia's teachings and ended wars with their celestial voices, not shameless parlor girls thrusting their chests and swishing their skirts to laser lights.

But then she had let Anise convince her otherwise. This was a chance to lighten up, help her feel less isolated, get to know the people on the surface world. How could putting on a little show to inspire Yulia's followers hurt?

The plan seemed so simple and lighthearted, no one in the party considered it could be sabotaged.

The stage was set in Daath Basilica. The band played the opening hook for the first song. Tear gracefully walked into the spotlights as the spectators cheered. She opened her lips to sing, and stepped on to an artificial steam vent.

Her dress flapped in dark brown waves as she was suddenly engulfed in a dense cloud shooting out of the ground. The smoke machine was supposed to be part of the performance, but its timing was completely off, and it wasn't supposed to blast this horrible sulfur-smelling dark vapor straight into her face.

The Fonist woman coughed frantically into her glove as she shook her dizzy head. It took a few seconds to regain her bearings as the smoke cleared. The band continued to play the synth-orchestra instrumental track through the basilica speakers, but the music lacked its live vocal track. The audience was mostly confused and couldn't decide if this was part of the show.

Suddenly, standing in the glare of the stage lights and overlooking the thousands of people in the audience, Tear got a very strange idea.

She reached under her dress skirt with one hand. Rather than setting up for a provocative dance move, however, she shuffled through the tiny scabbard sewn on her thigh garter. Her hand came back out holding four small knives between her fingers.

The music swelled, and she threw her weapons.

Four unlucky souls in the audience had front row seats to their own doom. The rest of the spectators exploded into panic and chaos as the first of Tear's many victims dropped dead with knives stuck through their hearts.

Now she had to deal with moving targets, but that just made the challenge more fun. Both of her hands reached into her hidden scabbards and pulled out knife after knife. She was constantly sending the tiny sparkling projectiles through the air as her arms works like windmills attached to the sides of a tank turret. Her garter belt was an infinite source of death and suffering.

Tear threw a handful of daggers toward the stage lights when they were interfering with her aim. The machine controlling their color patterns burst into sparks and malfunctioned, washing the entire basilica in a constant hue of blood red and dark magenta. The dreary lighting turned Tear's dress purple-black and made her skin glow eerie midnight violet, turning her into a wrathful witch shrouded in seductive mystique.

Tear spotted a young couple in the audience seats dying from their wounds. She used her blessed healing powers to resuscitate them, then threw more knives into them.

By now, the band had realized there were some slight changes in the concert schedule and fled for their lives along with everyone else. Tear cleared her throat, carried a soft "Ahh" to set the tone, and replaced the picks threaded through their guitars with small daggers threaded through their rib cages.

Tear's mind was in a state no Fonist should ever hope to reach. Her lips were pulled back in a sinister grin. One of her eyes was mysteriously hidden behind her long hair. The other burned with crazed and murderous fire.

* * *

Two dark figures spied on the disaster from backstage. Van and Dist kept their faces hidden behind the curtains and their voices hidden under the thousands of terrified screams.

"I believe our revised miasma compound is a complete success. I suggest we move straight to mass production!" Dist said in demented glee.

"And you're not concerned about her succumbing to Fonon poisoning now that she's been exposed to critical Qliphoth energy?" Van asked vacantly.

"Well, of course. That's the only drawback. It works on the same principle as a parasite that ultimately kills the host. It's not a permanent fix on its own. That's why we'll create plenty of Replicas of her to replace her. We could engineer an entire choir of angels going out of their minds." Dist cackled with a high-pitched squeal. "A single dose has turned our lovely songbird into a mindless assassin slave obsessed with sating her bloodlust."

"That's what Mysterica has always been. We just helped her be honest with herself." Van shrugged.

* * *

 _Author's note: At least I didn't blow up her head this time._


End file.
